


An Ordinary Life

by Romantika



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23801986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romantika/pseuds/Romantika
Summary: Drabbles, stream-of-consciousness, imaginary diary, scenes-from-the-life; all from Thomas' POV.Chapter 1 is "pre-canon", so much AU; chapter 2 is more-or-less "canon", though in quite a messy way; Richard Ellis is very much in evidence in chapters 3-5, which are "post-canon", so necessarily AU as well.Rating: a couple of "M" bits, but mostly "G"
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	1. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all "before Canon", but with hints of things to come.

1897 September  
Mum came up to me room when I had got meself to bed. Sang me to sleep. She said she won't do it any more, 'cos I'm not a baby now, I'm goin' to school tomorrow ... I cried when she left me, cried meself to sleep for the first time ever.

1903 September  
First day at Stockport Grammar - blimey, it's a big place. All sorts here. Teachers a bit scary, some of the boys are, too. Some lump in the Fifth form tried to bully me at break-time. I won't be pushed around, punched him in his guts - he fell over. Lots of the little 'uns laughed, I was just angry ... I often seem to be angry, dunno why.

1904 April  
Picked for first-year cricket team, great. Love to play, I can bowl and bat, love both. Lots of practice in the nets. Mr Moreton, one of the sports masters, really seems to like me - showed me how to improve my over-arm action, I'm getting good at off-breaks. He's nice, told me I had "real potential". My Dad never talks to me like that, just wants to know why my Science marks aren't so good. Physics is borin’ ...

1904 autumn  
Blimey, Latin AND Greek this year, with Mr Poulson, funny old boy. _Amo, amas, amat_ , 'n' all that - that was OK, but Greek verbs, bloomin' 'eck! Mind you, he could teach: had us readin' bits of Homer within six months. I like reading about all the fightin' - some of the boys are still a bit scared of MY fightin'. Poor Achilles, when his friend was killed ... I feel so sad readin' that ... 

1905 summer  
Picked for Stockport Grammar under-13s (just young enough), so we get to play in the Lancashire Schools League. We lost to Lancaster, jammy bastards, but we beat Manchester Grammar by six wickets, hurray! Stuck up sods, some of 'em. One lad, David Robinson, talked to me in the showers ... he seemed nice ... 

1905 December  
I heard Mr Moreton's not comin' back after Christmas ... family troubles, they say ... perhaps his Mum's died or summat, but if that were it, why would he need to go away for good? Strange, and my mate Jonty said he 'ad to go, or the police would've come in. He likes the young lads, they say ... blimey, don't really get that, but ... I feel sad tho', he were a good teacher, kind to me. Jonty said "good riddance" ...

1907 summer  
In the under-15 cricket team now: Mum and Dad came to our game against Manchester Grammar - we won again - talked to Davy Robinson some more, introduced him to them, they liked him ... I wonder if he'd be a friend to me. His Dad were there, works in a bank, bit toffee-nosed, but Davy's nice.

1907 Tuesday October 9th  
Got a letter from Davy! His dad has some business in Stockport, so he'd like to come 'n' see me: tea-time Friday, I'll have to work on Mum, should be OK.

1907 Friday October 12th  
Davy came to tea. He is nice, Mum said his manners were lovely: she made scones, with currants in 'em, cor! His hair's all wavy, wish mine was - it's just like a yard of black pump-water, borin' ...

1908 Sunday July 26th  
Davy's got his mum 'n' dad to invite me to go on holiday with them. They're tekkin' me campin' in the Lake District, never done that before! Big tent fer 'is parents, little 'un fer us, with some sort of camp bed thing.

1908 Sunday July 26th, evening  
Lor', we 'ad a game putting them bloomin' tents up. Managed it sum'ow, Davy's really strong, much bigger than me, I'm all arms and legs - a "stringbean", Mum says; the camp bed thing is a bit narrow, I bet I'll keep bumpin' into Davy. Haven't slept that close to anyone since I were really tiny, it'll be funny.

... It weren't funny, it were ... great. Davy put his arms out to me and he hugged me, 'n' I cried. Then he ... kissed me ... on the mouth ... and ... oh ... it were lovely, he made me feel so good. I'll never be lonely again.

1908 September 8th  
Got a letter from Davy. His Dad's sending him away to a different school, some God- awful place in Scotland. Dunno why, or perhaps I do ... cried meself to sleep. I think I ... love Davy, but I'll never see him again, never. I'll miss him so much, I'll always be alone now.

1908 Christmas  
Got another letter from Davy - his new school doesn't let him out for the holiday. Bloody 'ell, that's awful! Dad says he's taking me out o' school in the new year, needs me to help him in the business. Dad says he'll pay me, like I was an assistant - it'll be nice to 'ave a bit o' dosh. I love clocks, but I'll miss the studyin'. Mr Poulson said my Latin was really good, and I love all those Greek stories ... understand them a bit more these days ... I wonder whether there are lots of people like me ... and Davy.

1909 January  
It's hard, working for me father. He's very impatient sometimes. Long days, and then he drinks a lot at home. He 'n' me Mum don't talk, much ... less than they did, any'ow. I escape down the pub, "Coach 'n' Horses", not a bad place, not “rough”, barman seems nice ... knows I shouldn't be in there, but ‘e don't mind serving me. Landlord's only too glad o' the business, I imagine - it's quiet tonight, like most nights.

1909 February 12th  
Nice barman "on" again at the pub, gave me a free 'alf-pint o' bitter, and a wink to go with it. I think I know why. I slipped out just before closing, and waited round the corner. Saw 'im coming out, did a little whistle. He came over, like a dog after a bone. We went round the back ... he was sweet, actually, called me "gorgeous", kissed me like a maniac. Nice bloke, bloody big muscles on his arms, 'n' a cock like ... well, I dunno, really, it was just bloody enormous. I jacked him off, he jacked me off ... nice. He went off with a spring in 'is step ... so did I!

1909 June 7th  
John, the barman, turned up at our 'ouse. Bloody Nora! Mum wondered what on earth was 'appenin'! Did I know him, had I bin drinkin’ under age, 'n' all that?! She weren't 'appy, not one bit, but he jus' said that the landlord 'd had a warning from the police about underage customers, 'n' that I mustn't go back. Dad was already upstairs out cold from his evenin's drinkin', so ... I weren't 'appy, either. John told me never mind, I can still see you, if yer like. Not 'arf ... arranged to wait for 'im up near 'is 'ouse after 'is work tomorrow night.

1909 Saturday June 8th  
Fuck me, that was ... amazin'. Met John, 'n' went back to 'is place. He threw me on 'is bed, tore me clothes off, crawled all over me like a mad octopus. My God, 'e knew what to do with his 'ands ... an' his mouth ... an' his cock. Put it in me ... wow ... bloody 'urt, but then, just wow, ‘e did summa’ … saw stars, felt wonderful ... he's nice, he hugged and kissed me a lot. I thought about Davy ... wonder what's 'appened to 'im.

1909 Summer  
Went on 'oliday with John. God knows 'ow he fixed it, but he persuaded Mum it would be fine. She didn't mind, they 'aven't the money to go themselves, she's glad for me to get the chance - Dad drinks it all away. I'm sick o' that bloody shop in any case, it'll be good to go away: Blackpool.  
It were: fab! John said 'e loved me, daft bastard. He is nice to me, 'n' 'e's got a lovely body, just everythin' where it oughta be. He taught me a lot about ... all that. If my Mum 'n' Dad knew, they'd 'ave kittens, but I'm luvin' every minute ...

1909 Saturday August 21st  
Got back from Blackpool in time for tea. Dad was sober, for once, and very cold towards John, who left right quick. Tea was very silent, I wondered what was "up". Dad asked Mum to leave the room, 'n' then told me: not to go to the pub, and never to see John again.

"We 'eard things, while you were away."

"Oh yes, and what things might those be?"

"Don't you cheek me, me lad!"

"I'm not, Dad, I just don't want stuff said about me behind me back."

"What we 'eard is ..." Dad took a gulp of air, "that John Benton's a bloody pansy, a nancy boy, that's what? And you’re a friend of ‘is? Bloody Hell, boy! Foul, he is, bloody animal ... so you don't 'ave any more to do with him, you 'ear ... you bloody 'ear me ... do you???"

He shook a fist in my face. He was foaming at the lips: looked far more like an animal, if you ask me. I said ... nothing, jus' turned around and walked out, of the room, of the house, walked into the town, through the town up on the moors, walked about almost all night. I had to think, a lot, I had to get away from all that. I'd miss John, o' course I would, but ... it weren't safe, not for 'im, not for me. Better go, quickly, quietly.

1909 Sunday August 13th  
Got back 'ome at 4am. Mum asleep in a chair in the kitchen. Crept past her, and went to my room. Got the suitcase down off the wardrobe, and packed everything I could cram in. Lots of clothes, some money I'd still got saved, me fob-watch, Homer, Aeneid, Horace, letters from Davy, pictures. Crept back down again, into the shop, went to the till, took nine pound, four-and-sevenpence 'a'p'enny, every last bloody farthin' in there, and crept out. 'Ope to God they never find me, but my bloody father deserves it ... got the milk train into Manchester.

1909 Monday August 14th  
Even dirty old Manchester looks good at dawn. Walked about a lot in the city, bloody suitcase weighed a ton. Found a little rooming house, looked OK, wanted a week’s rent: twelve bob, Christ, but the old bag said there’d be 'ot water … 'n' breakfast.

“Does that include today?" I asked – I was bloody starving. “OK, smartypants, a breakfast fer yer cheek”, she said. Scoffed the lot, very good it was too, took the key to me room, staggered up the stairs to the top floor – not bad, window looking over the rooftops, wardrobe, chest-of-drawers, an old armchair, the bed was a bit lumpy, but clean, wash-basin with a mirror, God I looked awful, might be only seventeen, but needed a good shave: _I’ll get that in town_ , I thought. Had a wash, changed me clothes, looked in the mirror again – _yeah, you’ll do, Thomas me boy_.

Asked the landlady about places for work: “Whatch y’after”, she said, with a funny look on ‘er face. “Dunno”, I said, smirkin’-like. “Well, yer smart enough-looking”, she says, “what about service?” “Whatcher mean?” “Lookin’ after posh folks in a big ‘ouse, o’ course – they like to ‘ave good-looking lads about ‘em.” She paused, then “Look, my brother’s “in service” – valet to some big-wig factory owner lives over in Didsbury – he might be able to ‘elp yer. I’ll drop ‘im a note, an’ we'll see.”

“Thanks, Ma’am, that’s right kind”, I smiled a proper smile. _Why would she bother?_ I thought. Anyhow, I were grateful, really, ‘cos I really hadn’t thought much about it. I’d just run away, not that I’d ever tell ‘er that.

I didn’t ‘ave a lot to do for the next day or so, but Miss Price said to make sure I’d be home at 6 the next evening, when ‘er brother would call by. So I found a barber's, got a good ‘aircut an’ a good shave, looked bloody good, tho’ I says it meself. Bought a paper, sat on a bench in a park, did the crossword, watched the ducks on the pond; went “‘ome” ‘n’ read a book. Next day I went into town, went to the art gallery, bloody good, some nice … nudes, blokes ‘n’ all, I thought that were … interestin’: it’s not dirty if it’s art, they say.

There was a bloke there, ‘angin' about in front of a picture called “The Good Samaritan” by a Mr Watts, great big thing, two blokes, one ‘olding the other, cradlin’ ‘is body, like. I looked at it, the bloke looked at it, then he looked at me, ‘n’ said, “Lovely picture that, wonderful ... figures ... er ... would you like some tea?” I thought, “ _Yeah, and I know that’s not all you’d like, is it … ?”_

He ‘ad a look about ‘im, loads o’ money, fancy suit ‘e ’ad on, tortoiseshell glasses. James Morrison, he was called … kissed like a loony, really good fuck, ‘e was, a real softee. I fucked ‘im three times, once on his sofa, once in ‘is kitchen, once in ‘is big, soft bed, wi’ cream, silk sheets. Blimey, he didn’t ‘arf want it, and he didn’ ’arf ‘oller when ‘e got it. Made me lunch, too, bottle o’ wine, all that … called me _Tommy darling_ … even Davy didn’t call me that. We ’ad a bath together after, right posh, that were. Gave me ‘is card, ‘e did, “Keep in touch”, ‘e said. I was nearly late for Mr Price at ‘ome. 

I just ‘ad time to do me ‘air again, and go downstairs. Miss Price was in the ‘allway, and showed me into her best front parlour. 

“William”, she said to a tall, thin, immaculately dapper man of about fifty standing in front of the fireplace, “this is Thomas Barrow.” 

Observing me quizzically in the mirror over the mantel, he turned, "Is it, indeed? And who is Thomas Barrow?” 

“Sorry …?” 

“Who are you, young man?” he repeated, looking me up and down. 

“Thomas Barrow … er … from Stockport, sir … I am the son of a good tradesman, sir, a watch-and-clockmaker.”

“I see … and are you literate … numerate??” His voice rose, his left eyebrow shot up. 

“I was at the Grammar School, sir, for five years, they made sure o’ that”, I answered, smiling. “I have some Latin, sir, some Greek, too … I can do me sums.” 

“Latin ... and Greek, in-deed,” he drawled, “but your speech is common, that will need some work.” – The “k” of work was like a shotgun going off; he did not look pleased. 

“I can speak properly when I need to, sir”, I said, “our English teacher in my last year at the grammar was a grand gentleman, we learned a hundred new words every week, and how to spell them … sir … “ 

Up went the eyebrow again, “I am glad to hear it.” He fired off words at me, desiccate, rhythmic, syzygy, physiognomy, accommodate, committee – I got 'em all right. 

That was better, clearly. “Good.” He murmured, looking me up and down, again, slowly. He came closer, “show me your teeth” … he looked at my mouth, “your nails”, he glanced at my hands – “ _Thank God I ‘ad that bath earlier_ ”, I thought. “Good, yes …” he glanced at his sister, “Yes, Maud, I think Mr Thomas Barrow might do, might do very well, in fact.”

“May I ask for what I might do, sir?”

“My sister in-forms me that you are interested in going into service” - the last word was an affected sigh. Mr Price closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Is that so?”

“It seems like it might be a good opportunity for me, sir.” 

“Indeed it might, young man”, the “g” and “n” exaggeratedly said. He didn' 'arf talk funny. “I am Butler to Mr Simon Farnsworth of The Parks, Didsbury, a new house, sir, but a fine one, and I have conn-ec-ti-ons throughout the North of England in the way of service, to great houses and good – many conn-ec-ti-ons … many.”

He paused and stared at me again, then glanced at his sister, “I believe I will take some sherry now, if you please.” He turned to me, “perhaps Mr Barrow would join us, hm?”

“Thank you, sir, I don’t mind if I do.”

“Good, very good, now sit, and listen.”

Miss Price sped across the room to the sideboard, and poured three glasses of the light brown liquid. Little biscuits also appeared. All was most genteel, and Mr Price certainly talked, and I certainly listened, for nigh on ‘alf an ‘our.

The upshot was that he would put out “feel-ahs” into his “butlering acquaintance”, which apparently stretched from Cheshire to Northumberland. He finished a second glass, smacked his thin lips, and rose. “There is sure to be an opening somewhere. I shall put in me-neh a good word, nev-ah fe-ah”, he remarked jauntily, rising to his feet, as if to go.

Then he did the oddest thing - as he had stood up, so had I, naturally. We were standing perhaps eighteen inches apart. He stretched out his right hand, and held me by the chin, looking at me like some slab of meat. “Yes.” He let go, “not that you’ll have any trouble.”

He nodded to his sister, and left.

“Well, Mr Barrow, what d'yer make o’ that?” said Miss Price, her head on one side. “Haven’t I dun yer a good turn?”

“I am most grateful, Miss Price, truly I am.”

She nodded, and clattered about over the sherry glasses, then moved to the door. As she was about to leave, she turned back, “Supper at ‘alf-past seven: cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, and apple pie with custard.”

“ _Well, I’ll be blow’d_ ”, I thought. “ _What a rum show, an’ what an odd geezer!_ ”

Odd or not, summa’ worked. The following Friday, a letter arrived from Didsbury. 

“Dear Mr Barrow,  
You are indeed a most fortunate young man. The household of the Earl of Grantham, at Downton, near Thirsk in the North Riding, is in dire need of a second footman, and are having difficulties finding someone suitable. Their butler, Mr Carson, is an old friend, and I have given him a glowing account of you, in spite of your lack of training. Do not let me down. Be there at nine sharp on the morning of Thursday 24th inst, and I say again, do not let me down. Take your suitcase, speak properly when you’re spoken to, smile, but not too much, and keep your hands out of your pockets.

Yours, etc.,  
William Price”


	2. During

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is more-or-less "canon", though, since it's written very much as stream-of-consciousness, not everything is in the "right" place, and not everything is there (I'm not filleting the script, after all).

1909 Thursday 24th August

Off I went on the Thursday, Miss Price kept the second week’s rent, the old … but she had helped me, when all was said and done. I was up with the lark, and the old …duck made me bacon and eggs; then off on the first train out of Piccadilly to Huddersfield, a change for Thirsk, and another for Downton. It was quite a walk from the village, and that suitcase was too damned heavy.

It’s bloody huge, this house, blimey! I went round the side and found a courtyard. There was a sour-faced woman smoking a fag out there, Miss O’Brien was her name. She gave me the once over with a look that would curdle milk, and asked my business. “I’ve come for an interview with Mr Carson, “I answered. “Oh, yes, so you’ll be failed footman the twenty-seventh!” She was a real charmer, and no mistake. “Anyway, you might as well come on in. There might be some tea left from breakfast”. She stomped off through a big green door, and I followed, wondering what it would all be like.

There was a dimly-lit hallway, and then a big eating area with a long wooden table – a dozen pair of eyes turned on me. An older woman spoke, “Can I help you, young man?” A Scottish voice, very. “I’m Thomas Barrow, ma’am. I’ve come for an interview with Mr Carson. “For the footman’s position?” “Yes, ma’am, at nine o’clock. I know I’m early … “ “Oh, no matter, I’ll let him know. You sit yourself down – get him a cup o’ tea, would you, Daisy? Are you hungry? There’s some toast left.” She gestured to a nearly empty big plate, with two slices of toast on it. “There’s butter and marmalade, go on.” She seemed nice. Others made room for me, “How-d’ye-do’s” were exchanged. Miss Sourpuss O’Brien soon clattered off herself, ‘cos bells on the wall started ringing. Lots of people had to leave then, but Daisy, who brought me the tea, came back in from the kitchen, and … just gawped at me. Funny that. I drank me tea and ate my toast, and tried to ignore her. Soon a screech of “What in heaven’s name are you doing, girl?” issued forth and she ducked away shamefacedly. Except for more muttering from the kitchen and some banging of pots, all was quiet. My toast finished, Daisy reappeared as if magic, and whispered “More tea?” in a dreamy voice. “Yes, please!” _What a funny kid_ … 

Clunking footsteps. I looked up from my cup. A large, rotund person with a rather pompous expression and acres of livery stood before me. Oh ‘eck, the butler – I scrambled to my feet.

“Mr Barrow, I presume?” he said with considerable condescension.

“Yes, sir”, I answered with a smile.

“I am Mr Carson, Butler of Downton Abbey.” He stared at the cup I still held. “I’m glad to see you well looked after.” He harrumphed at Daisy, who was still standing there in a dopey manner, “That will be all, Daisy!” He shooed her away.

“Now, when you’re quite ready, if you would be so kind as to walk this way, Mr Barrow …” His voice drifted upwards, matching his very bushy eyebrows, and he gestured down the corridor. I grabbed my hat and followed him to his office.

I did as Mr Price said I should, and got the job. Mr Carson harrumphed and wiggled his eyebrows so many times during my interview, that I thought more than once that his whole face would fall into his lap. “I trust you can begin immediately,” he said. “We have a quiet few days, during the week-end and after, so I can begin your basic training … I see your father is a watchmaker: are you a careful, a fastidious person, would you say?”

“I can be when it is necessary, sir.”

His face looked quite acid for a moment. “At Downton, care is always necessary. You will be working in one of the finest houses in the realm, amidst fine and beautiful things of great value, and for a family of the finest lineage. Carefulness is the motto of our service. Carefulness and the family’s good name – those above all. I would recommend you to remember that, if you wish to do well here.“

“I do, sir.”

“I am very glad to hear it … Did you bring a suitcase with you … ? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We’ll get you settled in a room now, and then we’ll have a the chance to start your training, how to carry a tray full, a tray empty, a tray of plates, a tray of crystal, how to stand and be invisible and presentable at the same time … and so forth, and so on, and on. Are you ready for that, Mr Thomas Barrow?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

*****

So it began: do this, do that. No, not that, this. Stand here, remember. Look, observe, notice the glass-half empty, the ash-tray nearly full, angle the tray more, no, not so much. Left hand here, right-hand behind the back, beware hot plates, the strong spring in the service door, the worn step on the back stairs.

“Thomas, there is a stain on your cuff.”

“No, this is how to tie your tie.”

“Your shoes could have more shine.”

“ … well done tonight, Thomas, the Dowager Lady Grantham asked who the new footman was.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Carson: bossy schoolmaster and grumpy uncle, but I managed, and he let me wind the clocks.

Mrs Hughes, the Scots housekeeper: mother hen and “shoulder to cry on” - a good hen and a good shoulder.

Miss O’Brien: sour face and scheming brain. We schemed for a time, but not for ever. We smoked enough to kill a regiment.

The rest? Simpering Daisy who fancied me rotten, for a while; “sweet” William who fancied her rotten, for a long, long while, and Ivy, who fancied whoever she saw that day … and Anna, sweet as caramel, who fancied Bates, who limped, and stole my “other” job, and saw me stealing wine, and, oh, what a bloody saint he was, and, then there was the dog, that I “saved” to get that job, and Mrs Patmore, the screeching cook, whose biscuits I stole, and, then, above those bloody stairs, the Earl whose snuffbox I “stole” , and his yankee Countess, who at least knew we existed and remembered our names, and then ice-cold Mary, who only remembered her own reflection, and Edith, who never looked at hers, and Sybil, the young and crazy, who fell for the Irish loon who drove them everywhere, and the Dowager, who looked at me once at dinner and knew everything, and the heirs that died, and Mrs Crawley, the doctor’s wife, who always had to be “doing”, and her son, Matthew the new heir, who “didn’t know how to hold his knife and fork”, and so it went on, the endless ins-and-outs, the plottings, who was up and who was down, the machine of bowing, of scraping, of endless trays, and stairs, of aching legs and backs, and “Yes, milord” and “No, milady”, the everyday that robbed the mind. Ladies and Lords, Sir this ‘n’ that ... and a duke, a lovely, rotten, apple of a duke, who said he loved me, offered me the Earth, then burnt it all and broke my heart with a smile, and I hated him. 

*****

I thought I’d lost it, lost the plot and everything else besides, and then the War … oh, Christ, the bloody War – go in the Medical Corps, that’ll be safe, Carson can’t sack you from that, nice one, smart lad, Thomas … bombs, mud, blood, dead friends, dead lovers (a couple), was Davy Robinson here somewhere in the madness, Mr Matthew came to tea, talked to me like I was real ... my best mate got his brains blown out two feet from me nose, can’t stand it any more, lit me lighter, held me hand up, bang, screaming bloody agony, sent me home, got out, still alive, don’t deserve it, safe, safe, back to Blighty, back to Downton. “Come and work here”, said “Major” Clarkson, “you’ve got skills we could use”. Abbey a convalescent home, ME IN CHARGE, bloody hell, Carson apoplectic, it’s Sergeant Barrow now, didn’t like it, officers came, officers went, then came Edward, blind and lovely, lovely “Lady” Sybil working her arse off, proper nurse, learned how to smoke, “lent” her lots of mine, she’s all right, helped Edward with his walking, we three laughed together, I loved him, she knew. Clarkson said he had to go away, needed the bed, Edward found a blade and slit his wrists, and fucking hell we found him floating in his blood, cold and stiff, and I cried, and cried, and …

*****

War gone, no Sybil, died in childbirth, she was kind; no Bates, “killed his wife”, prison, I’m His Lordship’s valet now, then came … Jimmy. Christ, I fell SO far, so bloody far. Lovely angel, blond and golden devil you were, Jimmy Kent. Bitch O’Brien had him on, had me on, wound us up like clockwork mice, wound up my heart like a watch spring, then … I kissed him in the night … he would have killed me if he could. She wound him some more, “Get rid of him, or they’ll think … ” He wouldn’t have pushed, but she was pushing him, and then Bates, out of prison, even more the saint, said, “It’s O’Brien, you know, not that boy, do you know something?” … the soap, the baby, tell her you’ll tell her …

So saved again, and “under butler”, what the hell is that, hanging in there, just … then the fair, the tug-o’-war, Jimmy bets on us … we win, and Jimmy gets the drinks for us … and drinks and drinks … and the losers find him, and like a loser I get them off him, and he runs, and they beat me black and blue, and nobody knows why, and then we’re friends, and then a year, a year of “friends”, and then that bloody Anstruther bitch, and the fire, and he’s fired, and …

Empty

Nothing

God, I loved that boy.

Gone

Empty

I saved Lady Edith in that fire.

Gone 

Empty

Nothing

Darkness

Empty

*****

I got Miss bloody Baxter that job.

I need information.

I need power.

What is Mr Barrow for?

When … he finds another job ...

Empty

Nothing

Darkness

“Choose your own path”

More pain, pills, needles, pain.

I have a pale face, so no-one sees it.

No-one looks, I bite them if they do.

Miss bloody Baxter looks at me, I bite her.

Andy can’t read, I try to help him, Carson prods me, is such a “vulnerable young man” safe with me? Pompous bastard, pushes me, pushes, wants me gone. 

No-one sees the pain, so I make them, take a bath in my smallclothes, lie there, open my veins like Edward, floating, fading, sinking … gasping, falling upwards, smeary eyes, dry throat, wrists scratching rings of fire, blinking, daylight, little pants for air, so weak, so … tired …

George and an orange, “always be my friend”, Lady Bloody Mary smiling, crikey, “Mr Barrow can stay while …”, application, write, write, write … interview, six jobs at once, nothing worth it, nothing … then the Stiles household: misery of dullness, small, no life, no people, I’ll always be alone …

Lady Edith makes it to the altar, outgunning her sister by a Marquessate, I could laugh. I saved her in that fire, they invite me to the wedding, Carson shakes with the champagne: palsy, “Would you like to be Butler, Barrow?” _Too bloody right, I would!_

Downton’s quiet: Miss Baxter and Molesley, Daisy and Andy, Lady Mary has her motoring man (he’s quite a looker), Mrs Crawley copped a Lord, the Dowager goes on for ever, so do the Earl and his “yankee Lady”. Below the stairs I’m top of the pile, and people are breathing a bit easier, even “Mrs Hughes”, ‘cos Charlie Carson’s planting his veg, and I’m smiling at last, not only to myself, but why?

*****

1927: how the hell did I get here? I’m still alone… but I have my job, and a good one, and Anna and John Bates want me as godfather to their son, and Master George spends all his spare time in my office, and Miss Sybbie doesn’t but I love her, and Tom Branson is MUCH less of a prat, and … then that bloomin’ letter arrives, and the King and Queen are coming, and Oh, Lor’ everyone’s in a flap, and Lady Mary thinks she can organise it all, and she can’t, and she panics and runs to Carson, and he puffs out his chest and bumbles to the rescue, and I shout at the Earl and bang the door, and the boiler’s broken, and bugger the lot of ‘em, and I sit and read the paper and all HELL breaks loose, and the Page of the Backstairs is a beady-eyed git, and the fancy French chef and the iron-maiden-housekeeper and the bitch of a maid to Her Maj …

… and the King’s Valet has a smile that would melt a glacier, and a laugh, and lovely hair and eyes, and a bum would … and we play the joke on the phone and the valets disappear and Mr Wilson’s locked in the attic and the chef is snoring … and I escape …

Richard Ellis he’s called, and his parents live in York, so we go there and I wait for him in this pub, and he doesn’t come, and this bloke’s giving me the eye, and he’s not so bad, and he talks to me, and we go … dancing in a place full of blokes like me and him, and smoke, and drink, and music, and hot bodies swaying and smiling faces, and … police and whistles and black vans and banging doors, and a cell, and silence, and … fuck, what a fool I am.

Then I’m out, and Richard’s there, and he used a bit of clout and dropped some names, and they let me go, and, “I’ve been a silly boy”, and he smiles and puts a finger on his lips and on mine, and I’ve fallen in love.

In the morning they’re leaving, and he comes to my office, and “I’ve found a friend”, and “Is that what you’ve found?”, and a kiss, and “It’s not much, but I’d like you to have this” … a silver moon … and he’s gone, and it’s all I have, “till we meet again”.


	3. After, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-canon and slowish forward; this chapter grew and grew, so I've divided it in two.

So it began, my real life. At 35, if the good book’s true, I was half-way through, what a bloody waste! But this man, this lovely, lovely, sweet, adorable, SO beautiful man, who showered me with letters full of his secret love and phone calls full of his breathing love, and: why? How the hell did I deserve him, how did crabby, scheming Thomas Barrow, who smiles more with every passing day, deserve THIS? Words of love and sighs of love, and then … we did meet again, he came to see his parents, I would find a “good” reason to go to London, or we’d steal a weekend in a little hotel half-way down the country, in Oakham, or Leicester, or once in a cottage on a farm in the middle of nowhere in Northamptonshire, where we drank beer, ate cheese sandwiches and had sex for three days - eat, drink, kiss, hold, grapple, tease, throw, bite, lick, kiss, eat, drink, bodies, hands, eyes, lips, thighs, buttocks, cocks, sweating, panting, soaring, crying, loving, looking, seeing, oh so much …

This was only three, four times in a year, not enough. I feared he would get bored with me, turn aside, find another, but, in spite of the long absent gaps he never wavered, steadfast Richard, always there, never failing me, NO-ONE had ever done that before, not Davey, John, Philip (hah!), Edward, Jimmy (especially), let alone the half-remembered dark alley, under a bridge, down the docks thrashings up against walls or in the dirt, or the heavings in smoke-filled clubs for “our sort” … the once or twice someone threw money down … or asked for payment “up front”. NO, this was real, but how could it last?

*****

1929 Monday, September 16th: we’d survived, and then, as most nights, the phone rang in my office, late. 

“Downton Abbey, this is Th-“

“Hello.”

A little gasp from me, I dunno why …

“Thomas, it’s me, are you OK?”

“Yes, of course, my love, how … was your day?” I rattled out in a rush.

“Mine was fine”, he said, chuckling at the rhyme, “and yours?”

“A long one, but I’m still here … tired ... ” I mumbled.

A little pause.

“I have news.”

“Oh … good or bad?”

“Could be VERY good … “

“ …or?”

“Depends on you … “

“How’s that, then?”

“Well … I’ve resigned … “

“Wha’?”

“Yes, gave in my notice to old beady eyes Wilson after lunch. He’s not happy, but he can, quite frankly, stick it up his jacksie.”

I smiled. “But why? What’s happened?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. I’ve come into an inheritance.”

“Bloody ‘ell … n-not you fa- … ?”

“No, Dad’s hale and hearty … No, this is “Uncle" Peter, you remember, the friend of my father who owned the very gentlemanly outfitter’s in York we visited last summer, remember? Denham’s?”

“Oh, yes, the sweet old boy, who you said was “like us”, not that I needed telling. All those handsome shop assistants … “

“Well, yes, who would forget them? As you know, “Uncle” Peter had always been very fond of me - he took a great liking to you as well when we visited his shop last year, and apparently decided to leave his whole estate to his favourite “nephew”, who he long had realised was “on the team”. Thank God he’d done it all officially, made a new will and everything: he went to Marrakesh for his holidays, just like he always did, and had a massive heart attack. Only sixty-eight he was. Dad didn’t say much, but it seems the old darling might have been “over-exerting” himself with one of the locals.”

“Blimey … when did this happen?

“About a fortnight ago. Funeral’s on Wednesday – I’ll be on the train up tomorrow afternoon. Old Wilson bitched about that, too, but he can’t say much now, can he?”

“Will you …?”

“Of course I bloody will! D’you think Mrs Hughes can “get my room ready” in time?”

“The one you haven’t used for eighteen months? Yes, I daresay she’ll manage!”

I smiled, and then began laughing, first quietly, then just like a maniac, guffawing out loud. Richard went very quiet, waiting for me to calm down a bit.

“Are you pleased?” he whispered.

“Of course I’m pleased, you nit-wit … I haven’t seen you for two months, ‘course I’m bloody pleased! It’s just a bit bizarre … Richard Ellis, Esquire, man of business.”

“And property. There’s a two-bedroomed flat over the shop. All furnished, silver cutlery, Rockingham china, oak and mahogany – Uncle Peter had very good taste, it’s lovely.”

“Bloody ‘ell … “

“Yeah, so … would you like to join me?”

“Juh- juh- _join_ you?” I stammered.

“Yes, “come live with me and be my love”. The flat is utterly private, no-one will know or care, it’s been a male environment for so long that nobody will even notice a new face around the place."

My mind was racing. Two decades and more of service, ended by a phone-call, and in the best way possible, what was more.

“I am your love. I’ll be there in a heartbeat … this is amazing, I … I … uh ... ”

I could feel him smiling down the phone – he was as happy as I was. “This will be ours, all of it, ours, our new life, our future.”

Now I was crying down the phone, I was so elated, and I could “hear” Richard smiling at me from the other end of the line. Suddenly he was very matter-of-fact. “Now, my love, go to bed and try to get some sleep. I intend making sure you get very little tomorrow night. I’ll be with you about six.”

“You are bad you are, very. I love you.”

“I love you too, my soon-to-be-ex-butler-lover-man. A little kiss came down the phone, “One for your right cheek,” and “one for the left … and here’s one, with a bit of tongue, for your beautiful, red-lipped mouth, you wicked, sexy man … _uhh-aah!_ …” He was practically eating the handset. “Now, go on, sleep calls. See you tomorrow, love you to bits. Put the phone down, 1 … 2 ... 3 ... “ … a little kiss from me … _click_

Naturally, I didn’t sleep a wink. There was half a bottle of decent cognac in a cupboard in my office, and I sat and drank the lot, slowly, turning over all my dreams, all our dreams, and now real plans and possibilities, every now and again hugging myself – it really was all too much.

Suddenly, I started awake. I had fallen asleep. It was five o’clock in the morning, the room was freezing, and my neck hurt like hell … and so did my back. I didn’t need to be up till seven, but was it worth the trek upstairs? Probably, considering what a day it was going to be.

I overslept, I bloody overslept. Mrs Hughes sent Andy to knock on my door, and I was still dead to the world. “Sorry, Mr Barrow, but are you OK? Mrs Hughes thought you must be ill – she said you’ve never been late before, never.”

“Well, thank you, Andy, I’ll be right down.” The last word was basically a yawn, of sleepiness, and of contentment. Part of my brain was already counting the days; another part was still full of cognac - ow!

Still a bit bleary-eyed, I arrived downstairs at eleven minutes past eight, to a fretting housekeeper, and an almost empty table – the upstairs bells had already started. 

“Mr Barrow,” came the Scottish lilt, “are you sure you’re all right? I was worried.”

“Oh, I’m fine, very fine indeed, in fact!” I beamed at Mrs Hughes, who seemed rather taken aback for a moment, but then smiled.

“Have you had a phone call, by any chance?” she said with a twinkle. Not much got past her, it never had.

“Well, yes, but that’s not all. Er … might we discuss this in your room, actually. It’s both rather important, and rather private.”

“Certainly. I shall commandeer the tea-pot, if you could bring what’s left of the toast and marmalade.”

I had had many a conversation with that wonderful woman in her inner sanctum: from sobbing rock-bottom after the “incident” with Jimmy and the machinations of O’Brien, to organising the grandest of “dos” in more recent times, but none had been better than this one. I poured it all out to her, everything. After saying “well, well” and “goodness me!” a number of times, she just sat there, holding my hand and smiling like the sun. She was nearly as happy as I was.

“You won’t forget us, will you? And you know, Charlie will be delighted.”

“Will he, why on Earth?”

She raised an eyebrow. “He’s had a Denham’s suit for twenty years, swears it’ll never wear out. Loves it. It’s the one he married me in. His Lordship goes there too, you know, at least once or twice a year, it’s the best place in the city. His father and grandfather did as well, Charlie told me.”

“Blimey, I knew it was a good place, but old Peter Denham never breathed a word about that.”

“Well, he wouldn’t, you see, that would have been vulgar … and he had other reasons … for discretion.”

Indeed, NOTHING got past those soft brown eyes and that motherly demeanour, not a damned thing, bless her!

Toast and tea consumed, I thought I’d better talk to His Lordship, so went up to the dining-room where, unusually, all of the resident family were eating their way through breakfasts of various kinds and dimensions. Even Her Ladyship was down, which was certainly a rarity.

“Excuse me, my Lord.”

“Yes, Barrow, what is it?”

“Well, my Lord, I was wondering whether I might have a word after breakfast, please?”

“Yes, of course, Barrow.”

“Actually, no,” came that sweet Yankee drawl. “No, Barrow, you can’t.”

I was a little surprised, and so was His Lordship.

“Why on Earth not, my dear?”

“Oh, really, my love, don’t be _silly!_ Mr Barrow clearly has something very important to say, and I think we all want to hear it Come along, Barrow, out with it!”

I suddenly felt like a seventeen-year-old, very junior footman, utterly tongue-tied.

Lady Mary’s knife-and-fork screeched to a halt in the middle of her egg-and-bacon. “Oh Barrow, really, what _is_ it? Are the King and Queen coming back?”

__

I actually laughed out loud, in front of the whole family. Tom Branson muttered “God, I hope not!” into his porridge.

__

“No, My Lady, this is, if I may say so, more important than that … to me, at least.”

__

The Earl was staring at me, greatly perplexed, “What on Earth is it, man?”

__

“Well, My Lord, … I am tendering my resignation.”

__

Lady Mary actually gaped at me, “Wha … what?” she (almost) squeaked. Henry Talbot, sitting by her side, nearly choked on his coffee.

__

“Yes. I believe, as Butler, I should work a month’s notice.”

__

All eyes in the room were upon me. Andy, standing by the wall and trying to keep his “controlled servant” look up to the mark, looked like a stranded sardine.

__

“But why, Barrow, why?” breathed Her Ladyship.

__

“Well, ma’am, … sir … I suppose you could say that, in a roundabout way, I’ve come into an inheritance.”

__

“Good heavens,” exclaimed His Lordship.

__

I told them the whole story, about my “friendship” with Mr Ellis (I heard Lady Mary whisper “the handsome valet to His Maj” to her mother, who nodded sagaciously), the death of his “uncle”, the business in York, his request for me to join him “as his business partner” (to the accompaniment of eye-rolls from the ladies: _how do women just know?_ ), everything.

__

His Lordship had been staring at me throughout, but then suddenly came over to me, and shook me very warmly by the hand, clapping me on the shoulder. He hadn’t done that since 1922, when we last won the cricket match against the village.

__

“But Barrow, this is wonderful. My visits to Denham’s will be even more pleasant in future.”

__

“We look forward to being of service again, My Lord.”

__

Then the most extraordinary thing happened: Lady Mary got up from the table, came over to me, grabbed me by both arms, and kissed me firmly on both cheeks. As she did so, she whispered, “Thomas, he’s gorgeous. Good for you.”

__

She went back to her breakfast. I waited for the carpet to swallow me whole.

__

“Barrow, I’ve had an idea”, said the Earl. He came very close. “If you could work out your notice, I’d be much obliged”, he whispered. “Could you train up young Andrew, do you think?” _Oh, the irony!_ “Yes, my Lord,” I replied quietly. "And with Mrs Hughes’ help, I’m sure he’ll do a grand job. Might I ask”, I added, “that on this occasion you do not call on Mr Carson to assist?” The noble eyebrows did a very good imitation of the former butler's. “Quite,” he muttered, “yes, yes indeed, _hmm_ ... ” I could see he was trying not to smile.

__

“What are you two conspiring about?” called her Ladyship from across the table. “My dear, do please let poor Barrow go. He has a thousand things to think about. Barrow, may I call on you later this morning?”

__

“Of course, My Lady, I shall be in my office until luncheon service begins.”

__

Remembering how to bow, I did, and made it out of the room. I skipped down the backstairs like a week-old lamb.

*****

A couple of hours later, there was a gentle tap on my office door. Forgetting completely who it might be, I called, “Come!” in my “top servant” voice. The door opened and closed, and, after a second, I dragged my eyes away from my ledgers. It was the Countess.

__

“Oh, your Ladyship, I’m terribly sorry. Please, come in, take a seat, I …” I gestured to a chair by the fireplace, where thankfully a small fire was crackling away.

__

“Don’t worry, Barrow, I know you are dreadfully busy always, but I wanted to have a talk.” I took the chair on the opposite side of the fire, wondering what this would be all about. Only once in two decades had I had a proper conversation with her Ladyship, and that was when I conspired to be rid of Nanny West. Present circumstances were more propitious, I thought, but still.

__

Smiling her sweetest smile, she began, “May I call you Thomas again, Barrow?”

__

“Of course, My Lady.”

__

“Well, Thomas, all I want to say is: I am so thrilled for you, we all are.” I breathed in suddenly. She continued, “When you left the dining-room, I reminded my husband that he needs new evening tails, and Henry and Tom know exactly where their next tweed jackets are coming from. However, that is hardly what I wanted to say to you now.” She looked suddenly very serious. “I know you have had some very hard times in this house. We try to look after the people who work for us, but there are some things that are still harder for some than for most. You understand me, I think.”

__

“Yes, My Lady, but …”

__

“No, no, no "buts". There are many things a titled lady in England, even nowadays, doesn’t talk about, for all that my dear mother thinks that silly, and well she might, but that has never stopped me thinking ... a lot. I have also been known to ask questions - of Mrs Hughes in the past, and of Baxter more recently … questions about many people, questions about you.” I gasped. She actually leaned over and put her hand on my gloved one. “I know a great deal about what has happened to you over these twenty years and more, and I would like to tell you just this: I am SO happy for what has come to you now, and to have at least seen the person with whom you will share it." She smiled that sweet smile again. "I shall insist on knowing Mr Ellis better.”

__

“Yes, ma’am”, I mumbled, feeling like a complete idiot. 

__

“I do remember what it is like to be someone who doesn’t “fit in”, Thomas, though nothing I have had to put up with can compare with what you’ve been through. You have grown up with my family, you have become more than just a servant, much more, and to all of us. I hope I may consider you my friend.”

__

“My Lady, I … “

__

She rose to her feet. I scrambled up too, and stared at the floor, blushing.

__

“Now, I know you have a lot to do, the usual round, of course – I think we have a delivery of flowers arriving this afternoon.”

__

“Yes, ma’am, Harrison’s have orchids this week, so they tell me.”

__

“Where on Earth they find them at this time of year I shall never know,” replied the Countess, pursing her lips and shaking her head, “and I daresay they’ll charge us a king’s ransom for them as they always do. At least orchids last well. Oh, and another thing: His Lordship has told me of his request about Andrew. I know he’s terribly young, but he’s a good person, and we’ll do all we can to assist you and him. Tom has offered to help with any accounting matters, for one thing.”

__

“Thank you, Your Ladyship. I’m sure he’ll be very grateful, once he gets over the shock.”

__

She chuckled very quietly, “Quite.” She looked at me again, right at me. “You also have a lot of other things in your mind, for the future, I mean. May it all come to pass, Thomas, all of it.”

__

She smiled again. I was ready to faint.

__

“I’ll see myself out, and I’ll see you at luncheon.”

*****

Luncheon came and went in something of a blur. All the family kept glancing at me, and smiling at one another. It was really a bit embarrassing, and Andy was clearly bursting with a question or two … or six. I made an announcement at the servants' lunch, and … I had never heard a silence like it. Mrs Hughes was beaming, Phyllis Baxter smiled to herself, but everyone else looked as though the King and Queen really were coming back: every jaw was on the floor. Then came a hundred questions as to why, what, when, and so forth. I fended most of them off and reassured everyone that all was well in hand. It wasn’t, but what else could I say? I exchanged several “we need to talk” glances with Mrs Hughes, and then escaped to her parlour again for what was to be the first of many such conferences. I drank a bucket of tea that afternoon, and so did she.

__

The buzz of gossip from the kitchen was non-stop, with Mrs Patmore, every time she saw me, gazing rather confusedly at me through her spectacles. She looked like she’d seen a ghost, permanently. As Andy took up tea, I thought, _I need to talk to you, my lad_. After the servants’ tea I called him into my office, and dropped His Lordship’s bombshell. You could have knocked him down with a feather. He looked terrified. 

__

“Bu … but, this can’t be serious? I’m too young, how will it work, I haven’t got the experience, I can’t do the books, I … ?”

__

“Well, you will. I know you can, and everyone will help you. Mr Branson has offered to assist with the accounts, for one thing.”

__

“Thank God for that at least, Mr Barrow, but …” he was pink to the tips of his ears.

__

“And don’t worry about living out at the farm, we’ll make that work too. If His Lordship’s asked for you, he’ll have to make sure it does.” That did reassure him. I patted him on the shoulder, and he went off, muttering to himself.

__

_Trust the Granthams to break “the rules” again. One daughter marries the chauffeur, another has an illegitimate child, the eldest has a Turk die in her bed. Their next butler will be the youngest in England by thirty years, and wouldn’t I love to see Carson’s face when he hears about that! Meanwhile, their present butler’s a poof, and they know his lover will be sleeping with him under their own roof tonight, and not for the first time. Only in the movies, as the Yankees say …_

__


	4. More "after"

1929: Saturday September 21st

Richard wheedles a day-off out of old Wilson and comes to York. We meet at the station, go to Denham’s, and meet the staff. There are seven: a senior pair, James Buckley and Albert Maclean, who do fittings and cutting respectively, and two shop “boys”, Peter Jolly and David Trentham, who do most of the serving "out front", run errands, and smile at the customers. "Out back" in the workshop are the Misses Selby, Maud and Gertrude, bespectacled, rotund twins aged forty-two, their hair still up in Edwardian chignons and their dresses still down to the ground like their own grandmother’s – they do the hand-sewing, while their younger cousin Dolly Street, all done up in the latest fashions, whirrs away at a sewing-machine and irons for hours and hours – she also sighs a lot.

Richard had told me he was nervous about this meeting, but he needn’t have been. Mr Maclean, the older of the “seniors”, told us, in his Edinburgh Morningside soft-spoken voice, that they’d been filled in on the whole situation by Peter Denham, when he was remaking his will the previous year. They considered themselves far too old to take on the shop themselves, he went on, and were hugely relieved that it was to be taken over by gentlemen of the younger generation, gentlemen of discretion, who “knew how to dress a man” – he laughed slightly primly at that last remark: Richard and I dared not look at each other. They were also very keen on our idea of adding bespoke valet and butlering services to the business (ostensibly why I’d been “brought in”), with much nodding of heads between him and Mr Buckley, and remarks about “changing times”, “trained men out of work”, and the like.

Richard also got a key to the flat above the shop: it was just as I had imagined, if not rather better. “Uncle Peter” certainly had an eye for the antique as well as moving, human “art”: the place was, frankly, perfect, and my heart was bursting as we sat on the sofa holding hands - _all ours_ …

1929: September 30th - Richard’s last day working for the King

He’d said he’d be up on the last train and would I meet him at York? Of course I wanted to, but how! I was standing at the bottom of the stairs just before we started serving lunch, trying to think of a solution, when who should float down but Phyllis, looking beatific as usual. I barely glanced at her.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” I replied with some asperity.

“Now, don’t get all grumpy. You’re in a gloomy reverie, and: can I help?”

“Oh, I doubt it – it’s Richard’s last day at the palace today, and he’s turning up in York on the night train. I want to surprise him by being there … but how can I, the train gets in at five-past-two in the morning?!”

“Hm”, she said, “ … hm … _hmmm_ …”

“Is that a little tune, or are you at a loss?”

“If you’re lucky, neither.” She smiled knowingly, and waltzed off down the corridor. I was so busy for the next few hours that I forgot the conversation completely, but the female grapevine of Downton had obviously gone into overdrive. At the end of dinner, just as the men were about to “withdraw”, Henry came over to me:

“Mary tells me you have a rendezvous planned for later.”

“Er … well … er … that is, yes, but … “

“If you come to the garages at 1.15 am I’ll drive you in – OK?”

“I couldn’t possibly … “

“You didn’t, I offered … and, by the way, it’s been agreed that Andy will serve breakfast on his own tomorrow, the experience’ll do him good. See you later … ”

And off he went. _That, Mr Henry Talbot, is extremely decent of you._

The hours from the end of servants’ dinner till one a.m. seemed very long. I went up to my room, packed an overnight bag, secreted it in my office, and then played cards with Andy so badly as to lose four games of gin rummy in a row – he couldn’t believe his luck. At midnight, he was the last to go up, and I made the excuse of needing to write a letter to go back to my office, but of course spent the next hour staring into the fire, thinking, thinking … _one of us is free … not long now …_

The clock on the mantel struck one. I had been half dozing, but immediately my mind snapped back onto focus: _Richard, Richard._

I put my hat and coat on over my livery and went round to the garages. It was a moonlit night, with a tang of autumnal cold. I walked up and down on the gravel to keep warm, feeling more and more agitated. Henry was early, and we sped off into the darkness. I said nothing for several minutes, nor did he. Then,

“A penny for them … “

“It’d cost more than that, if I may say so , sir.”

He laughed quietly. “I bet it would, and I know exactly what you mean.”

We drove on in silence, though my mind was still buzzing. At ten to two we arrived at York station. I retrieved my bag from the boot of the car, and with a wave, Henry roared off into the night. I paced about at the end of the platform, straining my ears for the sound of a train. At four minutes past I heard it, and slowly, slowly, the great engine chugged down the platform. A few weary passengers emerged from the steam, and then there he was. It was all I could do not to rush along the platform and fling my arms around him. Instead, I waited like a good boy at the head of platform 1, and,

“What on Earth?”

“Well, I was hardly going to let you arrive at your new abode all alone-like, now, was I?”

Abandoning all caution, Richard dropped his own suitcase, and hugged me warmly.

“Ours, you mean”, he whispered in my ear.

We were both grinning like schoolboys on a day out. Well, it was a night out, and off we walked through the quiet city. Fifteen minutes later we stood before the door at the side of the shop that led to the flat above. Richard paused, and fished in an inside pocket. He pulled out an envelope. “This is your key. I had a copy made in London.”  
He took out his own and opened the door. “I am so, so tired,” he murmured. “Consider yourself carried over the threshold.”

*****

1929: Wednesday, October 9th: the Earl speaks to me after breakfast, saying that, should I like to be at Denham’s for the start of a new week, he’d be perfectly agreeable to that. That meant some slightly furious “last-minuting” for Andy’s training, but no matter.

1929: Saturday October 12th 

I woke at seven as usual. It was a bright morning, and I lay there for a moment, thinking that this would, after thirty-seven years, be my last morning to wake alone. But today was not a day for lingering. The servants’ breakfast was full of good wishes from everyone, and I noticed a few surreptitious mutterings in corners thereafter, but really thought nothing of them. 

My last day, a Saturday, and this Saturday evening that would definitely mean a pint at the Grantham Arms. It was only the family at dinner, plus Bertie and Edith, so at lunchtime I asked His Lordship whether I might have the latter part of the evening off – he was most agreeable to my request, so at tea I asked Andy, Mr Bates (I was so NICE!) and the new footman, Herbert Grice, pink-faced and curly-haired (all of eighteen, just) whether they’d like to join me. Glances were exchanged, heads nodded, and half-past-nine was agreed upon. After dinner, I had some “ledgering” to show Andy, so left Bert to be murdered at cards by John Bates. Half-past nine struck and I told Andy to go and fetch the others. I took my hat, coat and scarf off the hook on the back of my office door, and put them on. I opened the door and there stood Elsie Hughes.

“So, off drinking with the boys, is it, Mr Barrow?”

“Er … yes … “

She stood aside, tutting and shaking her head.

As I walked down the corridor towards the servants’ hall I became aware of the looming presence of … Mr Charles Carson.

“Oh no, Mr Barrow, I don’t think so … “, he rumbled, his eyebrows doing a very good imitation of a Charleston.

“Er … but why not? I’m the Butler n- …”

“ … for he’s a jolly good fellow,  
FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW,  
FOR **HE’S** A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW,  
AND SO SAY ALL OF US!”

came belting from the hall, and as I entered not only were the staff all there, so were the entire family, everyone wreathed in smiles. I felt poleaxed. His Lordship approached, shook me warmly by the hand, and said,

“Thomas, please do take your coat off.”

I did so, and handed it, my hat and gloves to the nearest human, who happened to be Charlie Carson. He took them without batting an eyelid. The Earl continued,

“Thomas, this is your last day with us, so we planned this very deliberately.” He looked intensely pleased with himself. “We shall all be very sorry to see you go, but we are all delighted to know where you are going, and that you will not be far from us in the future. We wish you the very best of futures and the good fortune and happiness that you so richly deserve.”

He turned to the assembled company. “That’s quite enough from me. I think we all need a drink. Andrew …”

“Yes, My Lord.” Andy appeared as if by magic, expertly balancing a full tray of full champagne flutes. He approached Her Ladyship. “No Andrew, Thomas first tonight, I think.” I knew it was useless demurring, but was blushing furiously.

During the next hour, a very great deal of champagne was drunk by all present. Even for the Crawleys, it was an unprecedented event.

*****

1929: Sunday, October 13th

There was one more farewell to make: the Dowager Countess had not been feeling too well lately, and so, contrary to her custom, had not been at dinner the evening before. In the middle of breakfast Spratt rang, and said her Ladyship would be most pleased to receive me at 11: “sharp” as he put it, in that slightly prissy way of his. At five minutes to eleven, I found myself walking up the drive of the Dower House. Suddenly the front door swung open, and Spratt appeared, beckoning furiously.

“This way, please, Mr Barrow.”

I shrugged. _Whatever next?_

Spratt took my hat and coat, and announced me.

“Yes, Spratt, thank you. I think I know who it is.”

She gestured for me to sit, which, rather surprised, I did.

“Spratt, a pot of strong coffee, please, and the chocolate Bath Olivers.”  
Spratt bowed himself out obsequiously.

“I understand”, continued her Ladyship, “that considerable amounts of Dom Perignon were consumed up at the house yesterday evening. Very liverish, I always find, you may be glad of the coffee.” I nodded sheepishly. Her beady eye was upon me.

“You know, Mr Barrow, a lot has changed in this world since you arrived at Downton, a lot. I remember you on that first evening, serving with all the swagger of youth, but looking as though you’d been born to the job. Do you remember my speaking to you?”

“I do indeed, My Lady?”

“Do you recall what I said?”

“Not exactly, My Lady.”

“Ah, but I do! _“Not that you’ll have much trouble”_ , was it not?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“I was wrong, of course, very. You have had a lot of trouble over these years. I may not remark upon such things as they occur, but I do notice. You have survived, Barrow, due to hard work and the use of your wits, though you have also been foolish and headstrong … “

_What an odd farewell this is turning into! I didn’t come here for a lecture …_

“But all of us are stupid at some time or another, it is part of being human. I have been very lucky in life, so any folly on my part has been shrouded in what one can only term the fortune of privilege. You have not had such an advantage, but you are still here.”

“Yes, ma’am”, I replied rather bashfully, still wondering where this was all going. 

There came a tap on the door, and the plumpness known as Spratt re-entered, bearing a silver tray with all the appurtenances of coffee and some very good-looking chocolate biscuits.

When he had gone, her Ladyship poured, which I found acutely embarrassing. She noticed. “Don’t worry, Barrow, I am quite capable. All us “toffs” are, you know, it just tends to get trained out.” She positively grinned. “Do have a biscuit, they’re my favourites.”

My head was certainly still rather “post-champagne”, so the excellent coffee was very welcome.

“Tell me about your new venture. I know Denham’s, of course, my husband used them often.”

So, I did, somewhat cagily, and being very careful about how I spoke to her of Richard. She listened closely, and heard between the lines, as it were. She always did.

“I shall begin there tomorrow at nine sharp, My Lady.”

“Oh, goodness, still 'early to rise'.”

“Perhaps not as early as when I was a footman, ma’am. I think seven-thirty will do: it will feel like a relaxation.”

“I always waken at six-thirty”, she replied. “I like to read in the early morning, it gets my head together. However, that is of no importance to you!”

She turned to the desk beside her, picking up a small black leather box. “As I said, I have had a very lucky life, and one of the best things in it was my marriage to a wonderful husband: forty years. One Christmas, ’83 I think it was, I gave him this. I should like you to have it.”

She held the box out. Dumbfounded, I took it, and ventured to open it. Inside were two stickpins, single diamonds set in gold. They sparkled in the morning light.

“There are two, as you can see. I hoped that might be … suitable.”

*****

I walked back to the Abbey in a daze, and the next few hours were a whirlwind of luncheon, farewells, “you must come and visit”, handshakes, kisses (including from the Countess, as well as, brusquely, Mrs Patmore), and not a few tears, especially from Master George. He and Miss Sybbie were in quite a state, and I had to promise repeatedly that I would come and see them as often as I could. George insisted I took one of his teddy bears: his second-favourite one, of course. 

At three, I was at last able to escape to my room. My case was packed. I stripped the linen from my bed, hung up my livery for the last time, changed into my brown woollen suit, and sat in my armchair for long minutes, thinking of many, many things … many. I was laughing quietly and then almost crying more times than I thought possible. I saw it was nearly four, and a deep, deep sigh escaped me, but then I smiled. _It’s all done, all of it._

I went down, and there was a car again, but with Tom Branson to drive it this time. _The other one who got away._ The entire population of the house was there to see me leave, and as we sped away, I saw them all waving. They shrank into the distance, and with a turn in the driveway, my past was gone.

Forty minutes later, we drove up to the front of Denham’s.

“I’ll ring you in the week”, said Tom. “I need a new jacket.”

“Happy to be of service, Mr Branson.”

“Tom, please.”

I nodded. “Good-bye, and thank you.”

He waved and sped off. I let myself in. I had felt Richard’s eyes upon me from a window above, so called out, “Well, here I am.”

“I noticed”, came the soft reply, then I was in his arms.


	5. ... and then

Sunday, the day of rest: not this time. Richard showed me over the shop and the workshop in minute detail. He’d really got hold of how everything worked there, and was determined that I should too. It was an exhausting and wonderful day, and we took ourselves out for dinner as a reward, touching toes under the table.

Monday, the first day of the working week: and how, but there was a lot similar to running a big house, and routine is routine. It was never boring. The reputation of Denham’s was very high in the city and surrounding area, so we were the first port-of-call for any gentleman, or aspiring gentleman, who wanted to dress well in either traditional or more modern styles. As to the latter, Richard ventured to advertise in the Yorkshire Post, which increased our younger clientele no end. As for valets, butlers, and out-of-work footmen, they were practically crawling through our letter box. A few well-placed “small ads” in papers and magazines across the North of England resulted in a positive flood of applications, which he and I filleted carefully. We didn’t want a huge list, but we did want the best we could find. Business boomed, and we incidentally had more orders from Downton Abbey than we could shake the proverbial stick at, including one from the Dowager for a cashmere scarf and lined leather gloves for “poor” Spratt, who, so she wrote to us, ”is not getting any younger, and does get terrible chilblains on his fingers.”

In no time it was Christmas. We had already become regular guests of Richard’s parents, who were entirely _au fait_ with our “arrangements” (knowing “Uncle Peter” for all those years, how could they not have been?), and invited us to Christmas lunch, which was a huge success. Messrs Buckley and MacLean, who were of course a couple (and had been together for over twenty years) invited us to their cottage in Pocklington for Boxing Day: that was positively riotous, gentlemen only, the other guests being an alto lay-clerk from the Cathedral called Jeremy Iverson, who regaled us with Gilbert and Sullivan after lunch, and the Reverend Edward Garbett, the Succentor, who got very drunk, and told rude stories about “vicars he had known” till he fell off the sofa.

*****

The Thirties were good. We kept quality up, and “the quality” kept up with us. A lot of them had had to trim down their establishments after the war, so hired servants became “the thing” – I even found myself opening a book for cooks and maids. Richard and I could afford a few luxuries, holidays abroad (my God, he took a tan well! – I never did), a car, good clothes (Mr MacLean always liked fitting me a lot, I could tell), trips to London (Richard loved the theatre, and taught me to love it too).

Then, of course, another bloody war. We and the “seniors” were too old, but our “shop boys” got their call up papers pretty quick, and off they went, with tearful goodbyes all round. We worried about them, we worried about our business, but we survived … which is more than they did, or poor David at least. He’d got into an ENSA troupe, out in Burma, and got blown sky high by a Japanese air-raid. Peter Jolly did make it. He’d been in Italy with an infantry regiment, and was bloody brave - blew a tank and everyone in it to smithereens by lobbing a hand-grenade though its open top - he got the Military Cross. He also got a flesh wound in his leg, but he was OK. Yes, even poofters have guts.

*****

1945: Tuesday, May 8th - Victory in Europe Day

Maud, Gertrude and Dolly had been doing overtime for weeks making red, white and blue bunting, and a nearby restaurant and a tea-shop went into a flat-spin cooking: what with, there being rationing, we never found out, but our street-party was one of the best in York.

1945: Tuesday, May 29th

We got a call from Peter Jolly, he had just disembarked from a troop-ship in Southampton, and when could he come to work, please? He had to get his de-mob papers, of course, but was welcomed back with open arms. During the hostilities he had acquired a “friend”, Leslie Wicketts. He had heard about David, but hardly dared to ask. We said, let’s give him a try: he’s sure to be handsome, at least, I said to Richard.

They turned up in mid-June to hugs all round, even from the Selby sisters: one look at Leslie, and Dolly nearly fainted. He was quite something: a bit long and lanky, but with a mop of auburn hair and green eyes like a cat. Mr Buckley said he was “just like that Leslie Howard”, which was no exaggeration, though Mr H wasn’t my cup of tea. He was definitely Peter’s though, they were quite “moony”, which had to be kept in check: there might have been fun to be had for a queer during the war, but not after, and one day in 1948 the police came to call. I could still do “servant blank” face when required, so my “Yes, officer, can I help you?” was as dead-pan as a doornail. 

“There has been a complaint about a Mr Leslie Willetts, who I believe is in your employ.”

“Indeed, officer, what sort of complaint?”

“Of indecent behaviour in the public house known as the “Red Lion”.

“The one round the corner from here. It’s a dreadful place, no employee of ours would be seen dead in there.”

“Nonetheless, a complaint has been forthcoming, from a most reputable person.”

“Was this “reputable person” also in this public house at the time of this complaint?”

“He was, sir.”

“Well, if that were the case, he could hardly be a reputable person, could he, officer?”

“Why is that, sir?”

“Because the “Red Lion” is not a reputable house, as I have just implied. Did I not make myself clear?” I did my best gimlet stare.

“You are certain, then, that your employee is not the person under suspicion?”

“As I also said, if he were under suspicion, he would not be my employee.”

“Very well, sir … “

The shop bell rang.

“Ah, My Lord, how very good to see you again. Please take a seat.” It was, of course, George Crawley, come for a fitting.

The policeman looked a little put out and ill-at-ease in the presence of the nobility, something to which he was clearly not accustomed.

“I am very glad to have your assurance, sir, and I think this matter may need no further … um … investigation.”

“I am very glad to hear it, officer, er … thank you. Now, if I may … “

“Why, yes, of course, sir, mustn’t keep His Lordship waiting”. Rather pink around the gills, he tipped his helmet to the Earl of Grantham, and shot out.

“Hello, Thomas, what was all that about?”

“Nothing important, My Lord. _I shall have words with young Willetts later_. I’ll fetch Mr MacLean for you. One moment, please.”

*****

Mr Willetts did turn out to be something of a liability. One day about month later, Peter turned up for work ten minutes late, which was unheard of. He was sporting a cut on his left eyebrow, about which he was also full of apologies, but told me that Les was feeling poorly, and wouldn’t be in that day. That meant Richard, who normally operated from “our” office out the back, would need to be on duty in the shop. He didn’t mind in the least, rather enjoyed himself in fact. That evening, however, when we were shutting up shop, he told me that he’d gone into the stock-room for a bolt of cloth that afternoon, and found Peter in floods of tears: Les had been drunk the night before, and they’d had a terrible row, and a fight.

The next days were rather tumultuous. Les’s “poorly” state continued, and Peter seemed worse and worse. By the end of the week he looked positively frazzled, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was muttering to himself. Saturday was dreadful: he was late again, looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink, and took an extra three-quarters-of-an-hour for his lunch-break, unannounced. I watched him closely all afternoon, and something was clearly very wrong. I had a cup of tea with Richard in our office at four, and said we needed to talk to him. We closed the shop as usual at five-thirty, and, just as Peter was leaving, I said, “Fancy a g‘n’t, Mr Jolly?” I thought he was going to break down. “Hang on a tick,” I continued, “ … er, could you do the blinds at the front, please?” “Right away, Mr Barrow,” he replied, shakily. By the time I got him upstairs to our flat, he was quivering like a jelly. Richard, his timing as immaculate as ever, was doing wonderful things with a lemon and the gin bottle. We sat Peter down glass in hand, and, after a couple of big gulps, it all came pouring out: the rows had been going on for months, he was sure Les was seeing other men, he was drunk nearly every night … “I can’t go on like this, really I can’t.” He cried like a baby. Richard sat next to him on the sofa, an arm round his shoulder, casting “ _what now?_ ” glances at me every few seconds.

An hour later, I walked Peter home. He and Les lived in a tiny flat on the outskirts of the city, twenty minutes away on foot. When we got there, it was a mess: there was an empty whisky bottle on the kitchen table, books strewn about, and in their bedroom clothes everywhere. Of Les there wasn’t a sign, and now Peter really did fall to bits, weeping profusely, and clinging on to me for dear life.

“You, sir, are not staying here tonight.”

“But … “

“Don’t be daft, we have a spare room … Richard’s a very good cook … “

He looked at me with his big brown eyes and started sobbing again.

He packed a little case, and I got him back to our place somehow – he was definitely “walking wounded”. Richard was in full domestic deity mode, producing asparagus, roast chicken and trifle seemingly at the drop of a hat, and by ten-thirty Peter was all tucked up in the spare room, snoring gently.

“Blimey, what a day! Is there any brandy left?”

*****

Such was one of the dramas that might attach to the running of a successful business in a provincial city in Britain after World War Two, but on the whole, we had it pretty easy. “Discretion” was still the better part of valour if you were "queer", but our aristocratic connections and the air, at least, of respectability that that granted to “Denham and Ellis”, as the business was now called, certainly helped. The aristocracy themselves were by no means having the best of times, however: our “servant supply” side tailed off drastically after the war; in 1951, George Crawley had to sell Downton, which was the talk of the county – the whole family “shifted down”: Lady Cora, he and his wife (the utterly charming and beautiful daughter of a local doctor, what would his great-grandmother have said?) and their young son Robert moved into the Dower House, while Mary and Henry went to Crawley House; Tom had remarried and moved away.  


The real “crunch” for us came in 1957: I hit sixty-five, not with a bang, but with a wheeze or two – all those bloody fags! Richard, still lovely in my eyes, seemed in damned good nick, but at sixty-seven, increasingly complained of creaking joints. That September, we took a week’s holiday in Nice: glorious, warm sunshine, fabulous nosh, and “beautiful people” parading up and down the Promenade des Anglais all day long. We sat on our hotel terrace for hours, just watching the world go by, but we also talked, a lot, and decisions were made. Peter was an excellent shop manager: he’d found himself a really good man, a commercial artist, Paul Davis, (very talented and frighteningly good-looking), and was, firstly, happy at last, and secondly, more than capable of running the business. The Selby “girls”, both now seventy, were determined to keep going, but Dolly had designs of her own: she’d been pestering me to be “out front” for ages, so, we thought, if Peter were to be agreeable, why not? The real worry was Messrs MacLean and Buckley, both now over eighty, but still loving their jobs. We could hardly turn them out, but …

They made that decision for us: a few days after our return, James Buckley came to me in the shop mid-morning and asked whether he “could have a word later”. He was a quiet and gentle man, but his eyes were troubled. “Would a pint help?” I asked. “I think it might …” he replied, looking somehow rather distant. Across a lunchtime table, he told me that he and Mr MacLean had also been having thoughts: they were indeed 81 and 82 respectively, and Mr MacLean’s eyesight wasn’t what it had been. “We might not have many years left, you know”, said James quietly, “and we’d like to enjoy them, together.”

So that was that, but it meant furious recruitment was essential. Adverts, more adverts, including in The Times, and a lot of phone-calls. It worked: Richard came out of his office one morning, letter in hand, 

“This one looks really good: forty-three, single, ex-Savile Row with seventeen years' experience.”

“I wonder why he wants to come up here.”

“Let’s give him an interview and find out.”

Mr Edward Fortescue turned out to be “just the ticket”. He was as smart as a tack, sophisticated without being a smartarse, and really knew his stuff. The “seniors” were quite bowled over. Fortescue's reason for the move: an aged mother in Selby, whom he “needed to keep an eye on". Best of all, he was a dab hand at cutting and fitting: that was a relief.

Now Richard and I really could “go”, but where? We wondered about staying in the city, but didn’t want to crowd Peter by staying in the flat over the shop, where we’d quietly decided he should live. The past, or rather my past, came to the rescue: Henry Talbot and Lady Mary came into the shop one day, a Friday in October, if I remember rightly – he needed a new winter coat, and off-the-peg would do nicely, thank you. Unsurprisingly, we reminisced. Her Ladyship turned to me,

“You remember the factor’s cottage on the estate, where Tom lived for a while before he married again?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Well, we still own that one, and a couple of others, but George wants to sell it – he says it needs some repairs to the roof, and he’d rather spare the expense.”

Something bloomed inside me. “Does he indeed ... ma’am?”

Lady Mary smiled at me, but said nothing.

I phoned George that evening, and the next morning Richard and I drove over. His Lordship met us outside the Dower House, gave us a key, and said, “Take as long as you like, and come back for a drink when you're ready.”

The cottage certainly “needed some repairs”: the roof leaked over the bathroom, the plumbing in the kitchen was “interesting”, to say the least, and the garden was rather too full of brambles, though it had the remains of a vegetable patch and the ruins of a chicken run. The latter really had Richard’s eyes twinkling – he'd always had “a thing” about fresh eggs. It was certainly big enough: two big rooms and a decent-sized kitchen downstairs, two big bedrooms, a box-room and the leaky bathroom upstairs; the attic also had “possibilities”. It was blissfully quiet, it was secluded, it was: perfection.

We did go back for a drink with George, several in fact, and he was, I think, a little surprised at how hard we haggled about the price. Richard gently reminded him about the leaking roof, and I muttered ominously about plumbing, so in the end we got it for five hundred (including the freehold), and not a penny more. We stayed to lunch: the “new” Lady Grantham, née Jane Cottenham, was indeed as charming as she was beautiful, and Master Robert promised to be every bit as sweet as his father had been at that age.

*****

We had fourteen wonderful years in that cottage, “The Factor’s House”. The roof was repaired, the waterworks updated, brambles were grubbed up, chickens returned, roses planted. Our backs ached, and I wheezed a lot, but we were blissfully happy.

*****

1972: Saturday, August 19th

We had a long, hot day, pottering about in the garden. We had a lad to help by then, Samuel Ferris by name: his father farmed up the lane. He went off home at about six-thirty, and Richard and I sat out on the back porch in the evening sunshine, drinking a well-earned glass of white. There was a bowl of olives on the table too. We had a simple supper and turned in early. I turned to Richard in our bed and hugged him tight: “Love you, always.” “You too, my darling”, and we drifted off.

The next morning, I woke early. Richard was cold beside me.

*****

1974: winter

A cold December day. Robert Grantham has brought his girlfriend Alison home to meet his parents. In the low afternoon sunshine they go for a walk in the village, and pass through the churchyard. There is a sprinkling of fresh snow. Walking along a path, she suddenly stops, and points to a curious double gravestone, a new one:  
RE 1890-1972 TB 1892-1973. 

“How odd, no names, just initials – I wonder why?”

“Oh, I knew them well”, replied Robert, “it’s a long story.”


End file.
